


Dwight Has A Bad Day In A Very Bad Way

by kanecantdie



Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game)
Genre: Drug Use, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mild Gore, does this count as mild? when is the threshold between mild and normal, they're not like actually a couple yet but damn the subtext is thick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-13
Updated: 2019-03-13
Packaged: 2019-11-16 10:17:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18092432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kanecantdie/pseuds/kanecantdie
Summary: Dwight is worried about Quentin, he’s still not sure what Feng meant when she called him “boosted”, and there’s a blood-thirsty serial killer after him. It’s not a good time.





	Dwight Has A Bad Day In A Very Bad Way

The snow is oh so cold on his skin. Harsh fluorescent lights burn through his closed eyelids, beckoning him to get up and face the fictitious world he’s been thrust into. Dwight really, really doesn’t want to, though-- what’s the point of running around as some freak tries to stab him with a pair of garden shears yet again? There’s no logical reason as to why Dwight drags himself up out of that snowbank, seeing as the mere thought of getting a hook through his shoulder makes him want to crawl back into the ditch he found himself in, but he starts walking anyway. He’s the leader. He has to.

It’s Lery’s Memorial Institute. Dwight had known it as soon as he felt that chilly air wrap around him. Really, this isn’t his favorite crib in the Entity’s realms, but at least it wasn’t that meat plant with all the creepy TVs and rotting pigs. The whole building is silent apart from the faint creaking of metal in the distance. His first priority is, as always, finding someone else. There’s strength in numbers after all. The first few minutes of wandering through the blood-stained halls never fail to make Dwight feel at his worst. He doesn’t even know who the killer is yet. Is he going to naively walk into a bear trap, or is he going to feel waves of electricity flow through his body? Will some freaky guy with a chainsaw run after him, or will some crazy teens with knives hunt him down?

After a while of slinking down the lonely halls, his arms grabbing at his sides as he shivers, a scream breaks the tension. It’s close by. Dwight stops dead in his tracks as a shock of anxiety hits him, but something strong deep down inside of him spurs him into action. He’s running as fast as he can towards the source of the sound, the linoleum floor beneath him squeaking under his beat-up sneakers. The killer was probably already there, but on the slim chance that they aren’t, Dwight would have to be quick if he was going to save whoever screamed. A Hag trap? The Wraith?

He’s barely able to stop himself from falling over as he skids to a stop just outside a door that’s been left wide open. A whimpering is coming from inside the dark room, so Dwight swallows his spit, stifles his panting, and creeps his way inside. The dim, flickering lights must mean that there’s a generator nearby, but that’s the least of Dwight’s concerns when he notices the figure hunched over by the window frame. White streaks reflect off the blood pooling on the ground around him. It’s a bear trap, and that’s a leg stuck in it.

“Quentin!” Dwight gasps as he dives down and starts prying open the jaws of the metal contraption, the boy’s blood oozing all over his fingers as he disarms it the deadly trap. With one last tug, the rusty blades of the trap pull away and Quentin falls to the side with a choked groan of relief. He tries to drag himself up off the ground, but he’s so shaky that he needs Dwight to lift him by the arm. The moment they share together, quietly standing in the shadow of their mortality, is surprisingly long. The only reason they break out of their trance is because the hair on the back of Dwight’s neck starts standing up and the sound of his heart starts throbbing in his ears. Sitting right next to the trap they triggered is just gonna get them killed before the trial’s even truly begun, so Dwight bites his lip, wraps Quentin’s arm around his shoulder, and starts leading him down the hall. The blood still gushing out of Quentin’s leg is going to lead the killer right to them if they just keep running like this, so Dwight racks his brain to try to remember if there were any good hiding places that he had passed on his way here.

“Here.” Quentin tugs on Dwight’s shirt and points towards an empty patient room with the door kicked off its hinges. With nothing better in mind, they hobble their way in and survey the rows of decrepit beds. There’s no way the killer would waste the time that it would take to check each individual bed, so the two brilliant survivors duck under a random bed and pray for the best. Blood-stained sheets hang low and obscure their vision, but it only takes a couple seconds before Dwight can hear the familiar jingling of metal as heavy footsteps come closer and closer and closer until his heart is in his ears and he feels like screaming.

Quentin clasps his hand over Dwight’s mouth to stop his panicked breathing, and time slows to a crawl as they stare out at the Trapper’s boots pacing past them. He stops a couple beds over from them. Dwight can hear his machete running along the metal bed frame as he checks under it. An uncomfortable silence passes before the Trapper lets out a frustrated grunt and passes by them again. This time, he stops right beside them. Quentin’s eyes narrow as Dwight’s widen, but just before Dwight can snap and run away screaming, the Trapper takes a step away and it feels like the weight of the world lifted off of them. They patiently listen for a good long minute, waiting for the Trapper’s footsteps to disappear into the distance, before either of them feels comfortable enough to get out from their little safe haven.

“I-- I think we’re good, right?” Dwight looks at Quentin with a reverence usually reserved for godly deities. Truly, finding a hiding spot was a herculean task that Dwight could never have done on his own. He always gets caught… Somehow the killer just knows he chose that locker at that exact time.

Quentin, however, just rubs at his eye with the heel of his palm and lets out a sigh. No, the thing that Dwight admires about Quentin is that he always has this strangely calm composure about him, like he already knows what’s going to happen. Well, they have been through trials together hundreds of times by now so it’s not hard to guess what comes next, but Quentin seems… different than the others. Like he’s already been through something nobody else has. There’s no point in getting stuck thinking about the past, though, as the present is very real right now. A look of pain spreads across Quentin’s face as he tries to take a step, reminding Dwight that they need to take care of the gaping wound in his lower leg. Sure, the entity would magically vanish it away if they could escape, but without a single gen done yet…

“We need a medkit.” Dwight whispers, curling back his lips as he kneels down and lifts up the soaked pant leg clinging to Quentin’s skin. The rusted bear trap had really gnarled up the flesh of Quentin’s leg, but as Dwight inspects the gore, a tinge of wry emotion runs through him. It’s a really really bad wound, and Quentin acted like it was nothing. Again, it wasn’t anything new to them, but… Dwight knew he would probably have at least cried by now.

“No, it’s fine. Just wrap it up with what you have.” Quentin raises his shoulders and looks away from Dwight, the corners of his mouth quivering.

“But, uh, wouldn’t that take too long? I mean, I don’t, I th-- Ow.” Dwight brings his hand up to his mouth, clutching his fingers in pain. He bit his tongue again. Ugh, now was not the time! He’s such an idiot.

“Where can we get a medkit?” He says it so softly that Dwight almost doesn’t pick up on the bitter tone. It’s frustrating to hear it, but it’s not like Dwight can blame him for being a little irritated. It could be worse. Even though all of the survivors get along with each other well enough, sometimes people snap at each other and things get messy because who wouldn’t get hopeless and upset in a world like this? The spot on Dwight’s cheek where David punched him the other day still hurts a bit, even if he apologized for it later. Stuff like this shouldn’t bug Dwight, it means so little in the long-run, but it’s just… Why can’t things just be normal?

The sound of a generator in the distance kicking into life rings through the air. Progress.

“Um, I think there was a room by the gate with some cabinets in it… There’s probably some supplies in there, if we’re lucky.” Dwight had only taken a fleeting glance in there, but in the Entity’s realm, all you need is a glance. Otherwise, you don’t make it very far.

Quentin sucks in some air through his clenched teeth before wrapping his arm around Dwight’s shoulders again. “Let’s go.”

Peering out from around the doorway, Dwight double-checks that the Trapper is completely gone. Better safe than sorry. His Dwight Senses don’t seem to be tingling, so the duo starts down the hall with the most awkward power shuffle they can muster. Maybe Quentin was right, though-- it’d be more efficient if Dwight went off and fixed a gen while Quentin dealt with his leg, but if the Trapper found him again, there’s no way he’d be able get away with how torn up he is. Maybe Dwight was just being selfish here-- it’d be better for the team if they split up for max efficiency. Maybe the only way you can hold onto your hope is by being selfish. Either way, it doesn’t matter, because they manage to find their way back to the fabled medicine cabinet that Dwight spoke of.

The place is actually pretty stocked. Dwight doesn’t have an idea of what most of the stuff there even is but there’s a lot of it. They both start rifling through all the drawers, pushing aside musty old bottles and dusty boxes to try to find something immediately helpful. Most of what he finds is random drugs he can barely pronounce, like rosuvastatin or amoxicillin. Turns out this place is just some kind of prescription depot, but thankfully, he manages to find a plain white box with a welcoming red cross on it. Bingo.

“Quentin, I found one!” Dwight spins around on his heel and holds the medkit with both hands like a child presenting an art project to his parents, but Quentin doesn’t look at all. No, he’s still busy tearing through the cabinets and occasionally shoving things into his jacket. Dwight’s fingers clench hard, his fingernails digging into the cheap plastic of the medkit. “What… What are you doing?”

“I’m looking for a medkit.” Quentin responds quickly, but his voice is drawn out and quiet. He picks up a little white pill bottle from the back of the cabinet and smiles to himself, but before he can stash it away, Dwight yoinks it from his hand.

“Modanfinil?” Dwight reads, holding the label up to the dim light. It takes a minute before he vaguely remembers what that is. “Quentin, what are you doing with this?”

Quentin scowls at him with his heavy eyebrows pulled together. He looks more sad than angry though, thanks to the deep bags carved under his eyes. “Give it back.”

“Quentin! Don’t you remember the D.A.R.E program!?” Dwight takes a step back as Quentin takes a step forward.

“It’s for narcolepsy.” He states matter-of-factly, holding out his hand with a desperation that makes Dwight feel bad for taking it away, but that’s when it clicks in Dwight’s head.

“When was the last time you slept?”

“What?”

“When did you last--”

“I don’t know.” Quentin’s arm falls to his side. Wow, he’s already given up. The guy looks like a sad puppy that got kicked, so Dwight gingerly places the bottle in Quentin’s hand again and instead slides his grip over Quentin’s wrist. Old scars rub against his calloused fingers. “I don’t know, Dwight, I just… I can’t.”

“You can’t keep going on this.” Dwight bites his lip and stares down at the floor, because he can’t bear to look straight into Quentin’s glossy eyes. It would hurt too much. “I know it’s hard doing this over and over, but you… You have to take care of yourself. Even if you can’t find a reason why you should.”

The boy’s fists ball up at his sides. “It’s not that easy.” 

“You don’t have to do it alone.”

“Go do a gen, Dwight. You’ve wasted enough time on me. I can do the rest myself.” Quentin says it with such an uncharacteristic cynicism that it’s hard to not feel betrayed. His words are like a strike to the neck, knocking the air out of his lungs and throwing him across the room. It’s painful to do, but Dwight hands the medkit over and walks himself out.

“Be careful.” 

That’s the last thing Dwight says before disappearing around the corner. The last thing he saw was Quentin staring down at the medkit hanging from his fingers. It’s not his job to take care of Quentin, but he can’t help it. Everyone gets along well enough to survive, but… Dwight’s always found some of the others difficult to really talk to. David’s kinda cool most of the time, and Claudette’s always really sweet, but Quentin’s… Quentin means a lot to him. He’s the first person Dwight thinks of when he wakes up, and he’s the reason that Dwight keeps doing this.

Even if he hasn’t even told Quentin he feels that way yet. Oops.

Another scream pulls Dwight out of his thoughts. It sounds distinctly like Claudette, but it’s way too far away for Dwight to be able to get there in time to help. All he can do is swallow his anxiety the best he can and keep looking for a gen to do. It hurts to be so powerless, but what would he even do? Try to fistfight some giant muscular man? He makes a silent and tentative promise to save Claudette off the hook later, but right now, he needs to do the objective.

Luckily, it’s not long until Dwight hears the unmistakable sounds of someone pulling the guts out of a generator. A short vault through a broken window, and he finds himself staring into the focused eyes of Feng Min. Grease and oil stain her hands as she reaches down to grab a wrench from her toolbox, turning away from Dwight without any further thought. He was kind of hoping for a warmer welcome, but it’s totally fine. There’s no time for sentiment this far into a trial. After all, they’ve been doing this for forever. Sentiment gets old. 

But it would be nice right now.

Letting out a sigh, Dwight kneels down beside Feng and starts fiddling with wires and other mechanical parts that need repair. It’s an arduous process, but at this point he has every single inch of the generator committed to memory. His hands move without even thinking; nuts and bolts come off with a practiced precision, the engine starts to hum. It’s not long until they’re almost done, and it all comes down to Dwight when he grabs the last free wires. Issue is, there’s two places to hook them in. Which one was it…? Red or blue? Uh, well…

A flurry of sparks shoot out at him, burning his skin as the generator practically explodes. Feng rips the fucked-up wires out before it can ruin anything else, and after a long and awkward second of silence, she flips around and hits Dwight with an intense glare. “What the hell did you do, Dwight? Ugh, we were almost done! You’re so boosted!”

“What?” Dwight furrows his brow as he teeters back on his heels. His fingertips tingle from the electrical shock that, but the much more concerning issue is that everyone in the universe probably heard that major mess-up. “I-I’m sorry, Feng, I--”

“Just go.” She takes in a deep breath of air and starts switching parts around. Apparently the mistake he made ran a lot deeper than he thought it had. It makes his chest hurt a little bit more. “I can finish this on my own.”

“But, um, the killer’s probably gonna--”

“Yeah, so go!” Feng shoots him another deadly look and it scares him enough that he runs away like a deer on the side of the road.

Well. There’s always more gens to do, so Dwight starts jogging through the halls again, ducking through ransacked rooms in the hopes of finding his next objective. The flickering lights lining the ceiling provide a bit of a trail for him to follow, but the journey is painfully tedious due to having to constantly watch every nook and cranny for a bear trap he just might accidentally step into. It’s better safe than sorry. The gen Feng was doing pops.

The next half dozen minutes are filled with nothing but anxiety and frustration as Dwight sits on his knees and shoves his hands in the innards of the mechanical beasts they’re doomed to keep fixing for eternity. Who keeps breaking them? The tedium is only broken by the occasional shout or crash. Hopefully everyone else is doing as well as they can in the middle of a trial, but Dwight already knows that the next time he sees one of them, they’re gonna be covered in their own blood. Another gen pops right as Dwight finishes his own. There’s only one more left to do. Where would it be? They need to get it done quick, before anyone gets sacrificed… They all need to make it out. That’s always the goal, right? They’re a team, and that means nobody gets left behind.

That’s always easier said than done, though, especially when you’re walking through a dark hospital and you suddenly start hearing the familiar heavy breathing of a man who wants to rip out your guts with a rusty hunk of metal. A chill runs down Dwight’s spine. He looks behind him but he can’t see anyone. Where the fuck is that sound coming from? The throbbing in his head is getting faster. He steals another glance over his shoulder as he starts running, desperate to get away from this invisible threat, but in the moment he’s looking away, he finds himself toppling backwards. Damn it, he must have ran into a wall! he scrambles back up to his feet, but instead of finding himself cursing the confusing layout of these rooms, he finds himself staring up into the dark hollows of the Trapper’s mask.

In the long moment where Dwight’s heart is completely still, he takes the opportunity to stare death in the face. He’d never been so close before without being on the brink of passing out from pain as the Trapper carried him over to a hook. All this time, Dwight thought he couldn’t get more afraid of the killers, yet here he was. Standing inches away from a gigantic body. Heavy muscles twitching, mouth open and heaving for air. His breath smells of blood.

The killer raises his arm. The only reason Dwight knew his heart was still beating was because of the blood that shot from his chest, gushing out into his clothes, as the Trapper brought down his machete across his body. His entire being lit up in flames as the pain consumed his mind, but the adrenaline coursing through him moved him out of the way of a second swing. He found himself flying down the hallway faster than he’s ever ran before, vaulting over desks and broken windows with skill he never realized he had. The thrill of the hunt powers him. The Trapper is a step ahead of him at every turn though. He gradually closes the distance until he’s only a step away from being able to drive that blade into Dwight’s back.

He can’t afford to think. All of his feelings, both physical and mental, are clouding his mind, stopping him from making any kind of rational decision, and the only thing keeping him from getting skewered on a meat hook is his honed instinct. This place becomes more unfamiliar to him each time he comes back, but something in the back of his mind tells him which way to go. There’s a pallet just around the corner. It’s so close, so fucking close, but could he even make it? Words echo in his mind. Do what David said to do. There isn’t any energy left in his body-- his legs are pumping as fast as they possibly can-- yet Dwight thinks of everyone back at camp and he lunges forward with one last desperate spike of adrenaline. He dives just out of the way of a fatal swing, air falling around him as his body slides behind a pallet. Before the Trapper can recover from his whiff, Dwight throws himself to the side and kicks the pallet down onto the hulking man. 

The bloody machete skitters across the floor. The Trapper stares down at him for a second, considering the possibility of just chasing him down and choking the life out of Dwight with his own damn hands, but instead he just sighs and kneels down to grab his weapon. In the moment he managed to buy himself, Dwight drags himself up off the cold floor and breaks into a sprint again. Eventually Dwight finds himself turning into a shower room with stalls filling the open space. The unnerving pounding is still reverberating in his ears, which tells him that he hasn’t lost the killer just yet. What to do, what to do… He can’t keep running like this. Even if he could keep his energy going, it would only be a matter of time before he got outplayed. Shit, shit, shit, shit--

Wait. Is… is that… Is that the answer? Is it calling his name? It’s definitely speaking him. It knows his name.

There isn’t time to think about it so Dwight swallows hard and accepts his calling. His one true talent. He must get in the locker. His hand shakes as he pulls open the metal lock. The door squeaks with glee, drawing Dwight deep into its dark embrace. Once the lock clicks into place, he’s trapped. His breath echoes around him with only three slits in the door to remind him that he’s still in the same world as he was before.

Footsteps cross by him. Heavy breathing and swearing. Then it’s gone. Oh my god did it actually work? Maybe he had a good enough lead that the killer just thought he kept running in some other direction. Most of the time the killer at least checks around before leaving. Part of Dwight wants to spend the rest of the trial safe in this iron cage of his, but he knows that wouldn’t be fair to the rest of his team, so he builds up what little courage he has left and brings his hand to the lock. He opens the door as slowly as possible, lest it makes a noise and alerts a certain unsavory person.

The heartbeat is finally gone for good, so either his third eye just closed or the killer finally moved on from him. It’s only then that the full trauma of his injury hits him. The stinging is insane-- the entire front of his shirt is soaked in red. A scratchy gash runs down his chest all the way down until the bottom of his stomach. His vision is blurry at the corners, eyes watering from the pain. It’s nothing he hasn’t felt before, though. It’s fine. Dwight is a big boy and he can handle it. Quentin didn’t cry so he shouldn’t either.

That being said, it would still be preferable if he could do something about the bleeding as soon as possible. There wasn’t anything on-hand he could use to dress this big of a wound, so all Dwight can do is try to hold in his guts as he wanders down yet another dim and hopeless hallway. Alone, hoping for somebody to show up and save him from this torture. There’s a snap of a bear trap in the distance. There aren’t enough fucks left in Dwight for him to give any about it. The only thing on his mind is stopping the pain.

Luckily, it doesn’t take too long before Dwight finds another gen. He kneels down in front of it, taking a deep breath to still his racing heart, but just before he can start working, he feels a hand clamp down on his shoulder. A scream almost escapes his lips, but Claudette’s warm expression greets him before he can make a fool of himself. She takes one look at the puddle of blood collecting beneath Dwight before whipping out her characteristic medkit. It’s a wordless exchange, with Dwight biting his lip as Claudette skillfully sutures his flesh back together and covers it with a tiny roll of bandages. The cloth turns crimson almost immediately.

Claudette just gives a smile before turning to work on the gen. Honestly, it takes a minute for Dwight to recover from that, because a weird wave of emotion hits him. In this cold world they’re all trapped in, a simple smile manages to reduce him to tears. It’s probably out of happiness. But it’s a little bittersweet; it feels so weird that such a tiny shred of warmth can make Dwight feel like life’s still worth living. Isn’t that stupid? This is just what the entity wants. This hope… All it does is make him play into the entity’s game more and more, but without it, he couldn’t possibly survive. If you really think about it… The only way to truly die in this wild world is to kill yourself.

Dwight frowns. That’s definitely an overly dramatic way to put it, but it’s poetic enough that he feels proud of himself for having come up with it. Even if it sounds like a seventh grader wrote it. Regardless, Dwight manages to collect himself, so he turns to help Claudette. Just as he actually starts doing something, though, the lights suddenly flick on and the generator bursts into life. The fabled fifth generator has been completed! They both jump up to their feet and do a little happy dance together! Though, the atmosphere is sordid enough that they’re both self conscious about it, and the dance ends up just being a series of awkward wiggles.

The nearest exit gate isn’t far at all, so they make their way to it without any hesitation. The snappy cold of the snowy air bites at Dwight’s exposed skin, but the promise of escape warms him enough to be able to ignore it. Dim stars shine in the fake night sky above them. Claudette’s manning the exit gate, leaving Dwight to stare deep into the urban labyrinth they just crawled out of. Literally nothing about this place is inviting, but… The doors are sliding open, yet Dwight can’t stomach the idea of just leaving like this. Claudette is already running out. He could leave right now and be safe. The pain would end too, but… She stops to look back at him. There must have been something in his eyes, because when he looks over at her, Claudette just nods and dashes off into the fog. He couldn’t blame her.

Dwight, unfortunately, has more personal stakes in this particular trial than he wishes he had. Something deep down, in the trenches of his heart, tells him to run back into those damn never-ending halls to find the others. He knew Quentin hadn’t made it out yet. He just knew.

It’s weird, actually wanting to find the killer. Not that he’s gonna go toe-to-toe with the guy, but if he’s chasing Dwight, then that means Quentin isn’t in danger. It’s a very strange sort of courage. A very fragile kind that feels like needles in his fingers and poison in his veins. He should’ve just left when he had the chance. It’s fragile like the very bonds between people-- all it would take to end everything is a single strike. One single decisive strike.

The beat is back. Thump, thump, thump. Is he walking towards the killer or is the killer coming for him? Dwight’s palms feel clammy. Uncomfortably so. What was he even going to do? Throw hands? It’s not like he has a flashlight or anything. The best he could possibly do is block a blow with his own body, and that’s… If it has to be done, then so be it. He can already imagine the flames coursing as that blade tears his flesh from his body. His own blood spills onto his friends. Would he be willing to die in the place of another? Follow-up question: is it bad that his answer would change depending on the person?

There’s a blood-curdling scream, accompanied by what sounds like a straw stirring around slush. He was too late. Sound of meat falling from the counter and hitting the ground. Excited grunts from a murderous psychopath. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck that was Quentin. What the hell can he do? He jumps around the corner, just in time to watch the Trapper hoist Quentin’s motionless body up onto his broad shoulders. Is he having a panic attack right now? Hearts aren’t supposed to beat that fast. There has to be something he can do! Something something something--

“Dwight, move!” Feng drags him backwards and tosses him to the floor behind her. There’s a blinding explosion of light as she flicks on her flashlight and shoves it forward. The beam burns a hole through the Trapper’s face, causing him to stumble backwards until he trips over a collapsed bed. Quentin tumbles down onto the ground, rolling away until he hits the wall. A spike of adrenaline picks Dwight up off the floor and propels him over to Quentin’s side. They glance into each other's eyes, just barely long enough for them to even recognize each other, before Dwight drags the crippled boy up off the ground. The only reason that Quentin manages to keep going is because of that one last tiny shred of hope left in his heart. Dwight saw it. That boy has one hell of a will to live, even if he won’t admit it.

The moment doesn’t last long as Feng’s shouts draw him out of his reverie. She’s already gone by the time he looks up. A growl erupts from the Trapper’s mutilated throat. He needs to get out. Now. His legs push him away from the killer as fast as they can, pumping so damn hard that it feels like he’s not even touching the ground. Nothing will stand in his way. Escape is so fucking close.

Ah, but there lies the folly. You never ever jinx it.

The spring of the bear trap catches under Dwight’s heavy footstep, causing the jaws to bite down on his leg with a resounding snap. There’s an underlying crunch to the sound as well. His tibia definitely just got destroyed. Ahaha, ha. Hah. What a fool he was. He forgot to check for traps. The Trapper’s shadow consumes him, drowning him in the morbid darkness from whence the Entity was born. A heavy boot kicks the trap open as the Trapper rips Dwight out from his rusty prison, carrying him on his shoulder just like he had done with Quentin moments ago. Honestly, Dwight doesn’t even notice the pain in his leg because he’s already lost all feeling. No, that’s not blood leaking from his leg, that’s his hopes and dreams in liquid form. And now it’s all on the ground. The only thing he can do now is prepare himself for the all too familiar pain of getting a hook sunken through his chest. It’s almost kind of cruel how it misses his heart every time.

It’s honestly not that bad this time though. He had known what he was doing. There was a very real possibility this would happen and he knowingly took that risk. The claws of the Entity are already closing in on him. Huh, was he that pitiful? Truth be told, he welcomed the embrace. He couldn’t stand staring into the Trapper’s dead eyes anymore. They glinted in the light ever so slightly through the shadow of the mask. Tendrils tear through his flesh as he lifts higher and higher into the sky, eventually whisking him away through a rift in the sky.

And then the world’s gone. He’s floating aimlessly through a sea of pitch black nothingness. Yet, it feels like there’s… everything. The distinction between null and void is pointless-- when does reality become fiction? The Entity is all around him. Its caress runs over his wounds, pierces deep into his flesh, pulls out guts and viscera. His blood is spilling out so fast, but the entity isn’t stealing it from him. No, it’s replacing every drop with its own neurotic concoction. What is he made of now? If you replace every board of a boat, are you the same person?

He wakes with a gasp. The oxygen floods his lungs and fills his body with life like he was a newborn baby breathing for the first time. The heat of the fire starts burning his body so he drags himself up out of the dirt and looks around. Everything he felt is gone. All that remains is a vague recollection of what happened and another scar on his stomach. 

“You’re finally back.” 

Some of the others are sitting around the fire too. Claudette smiles at him again, her face a little pained, but her words are more than comforting. David, Feng, Kate, and Bill circle the fire too, but Dwight can’t deny that he’s disappointed. After everything he did in that trial, he thought Quentin would at least stick around for a bit. It’s hard to explain the emotion he feels in that moment as the others sit around chatting to each other like everything is fine. That’s how they all survive after all, by pretending like the next trial is never going to happen, but right now Dwight can’t help but mentally walk through every single trial he’s been through. Every single cut, every single hook, every single time he ran away. Every time he abandoned someone. Every scream he heard behind his back.

He finally turns back to fight and he doesn’t even get a thank you?

Man, Dwight must have looked real stupid to the others when he ran away into the woods, tears streaming down his cheeks. They’ve been doing this for so long you would have thought he would have gotten over everything already. Yet, here he is, crying under some trees. Nobody follows him. This is all so stupid. He shouldn’t be feeling like this. He shouldn’t expect other people to play the parts he made up for them. He shouldn’t--

“Hey. Why are you crying?” It’s Quentin, suddenly sitting next to him. He always was one of the quietest. “I guess that’s a dumb question. I cry every day, so.”

All that Dwight can muster while he rubs at his eyes is a choking sound. So they just sit there together for a while until Dwight’s done sobbing into his knees. Quentin just stares into the distance, eyes a little glazed over. He must be so numb by now. Guys like David, they don’t let this shit get them down. They use that anger to keep them going, to keep surviving, but Dwight isn’t that strong. He’s just a pizza guy that got in way over his head. 

“Here. Take this.” Quentin forces a bottle into Dwight’s hands as soon as he’s done crying. It’s the same thing of pills that Quentin had stole from the trial.

“I don’t want--”

“Just hold onto it. I’m not telling you to start popping pills or anything.”

A crooked smile appears on Dwight’s face. “So you changed your mind?”

“I already took a couple.” He laughs to himself like this is a joking matter. There isn’t anything they can do but laugh, though. “I, uh… Just hold onto it for me, okay?”

Dwight just nods and clutches the bottle with both hands. Neither of them say anything for a while after that. Only the wind speaks as it whistles past them, dodging through trees and disappearing into the distance. Nobody knows what lies far beyond these woods. Maybe the real world is just sitting there, waiting for their return, or maybe the trial grounds sprawl out indefinitely with no way to get out. Maybe one day they’ll find out where the world ends, and then they’ll be able to escape.

Eventually Quentin pushes himself up out of the pile of leaves they were sitting in, dusts off the seat of his pants, and turns away. He takes a few ginger steps towards the campfire before craning his head back to look at the sad pizza boy one last time.

“Oh, and. Um. Thanks, Dwight. For everything.”

■

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, gamers. B)  
> I hope you enjoyed my epic story.  
> I dedicate this piece to the nerds over on Discord for convincing me Quentin is best boy, and for providing several headcanons I low-key sprinkled in here. Y'all are cool as hell.
> 
> Honestly if I ever willingly write another DBD fanfic it will probably be about David King. It is not my fault he is filled with raw sex appeal.
> 
> peace


End file.
